An Appetite for Adventure

Homeward bound, at long last. Well, not entirely as I did not have a home, in the traditional sense of the word, to return to. But back to America, to New York City, to Sean … to the mosaic of sights, sounds, smells and people that constitute “my” home. As I awoke, I thought I would feel something grand: a feeling of excitement and anticipation, or, perhaps, sadness. Oddly, I felt nothing more than the urge to get my errands done.

And so I strolled through Tel Aviv’s streets and alleys for the final time, pausing to get a few additional shekels, post a few postcards for overseas friends and absorb the flavor of a city to which over the past 10 days I had grown quite accustomed. The night before I told Shirley to sleep in, and while she slumbered, I made my way through Nahalat Binyamin for the final time, picking up a few thank you presents for my ever so accommodating hostess. I only took one other picture that day, at the market:

There was also time for a final personal indulgence. Ever since our shopping day, a multi-strand silver necklace from a store called Ruby Star tugged at my mind, heart and wallet like an overeager child begging her mommy for a new bauble. Having received confirmation of my stimulus payment, I procured that beauty for my jewelry collection. I do hope the Israeli economy felt a bit of a lift from the US dollars I dumped there!

I picked up Shirley and we indulged in our own version of The Last Supper at a cute cafe off Allenby, right up the street from her apartment before heading to the airport.

A traveler has never really witnessed airport security until he has flown through Israel. The shoe removal, the plastic baggies with travel-sized liquids, the huffy-gruffy TSA agents — that’s all security theater compared to tried and true Israeli airport security. With here unnamed regimes threating Israel’s annihilation, not to mention the long history of suicide bombers’ propensities for planes, Israel means business when it comes to the lives of their citizens and all those traveling in and out of the country via air. So while racial and other profile leads to heated debate in America, it’s a way of life in Israel. And as a single, non-Jewish, non-Israeli, backpacking young female one-way ticket holder, I’m suspect numero uno. For people like me, thorough and intense luggage inspections are de riguer. What’s worse, Shirl’s last house guest (same profile as me) was even strip searched. Now, my mother didn’t nickname me Lady Godiva for nothin’, but even I was a bit turned off by the idea of having to peel off my layers for a stranger.

To try to avert a skivvy-clad Colleen in security, Shirley accompanied me to security. Unlike other airports where you only go through security once you receive your boarding card, in Israel, you go through this rigorous search and release as soon as you enter the airport. Shirley spoke with an agent and gestured for me to come over. A rapidfire Hebrew conversation ensued and another guard was brought over. Then began the interrogation: “Why are you here? Who do you know? Are you Jewish? How did you two meet? Where were you before?” On and on. I was definitely sweating, but trying to stay cool. The guard left and came back with a third woman, who again spoke to both myself and Shirley. Finally, I was given a sticker on my bag and told to put it through the machine. Success! Shirley told me that the guard was asking her questions first in Hebrew then me the same questions in English, trying to match up our stories and catch any inconsistencies. With Shirl’s help, I didn’t even have to open my bags. What a relief. Anyone planning to travel to Israel, take note: The guard said it was very good that Shirley came with me otherwise I would have endured a lot more hassle.

When I finally boarded the plane, I realized there were kids everywhere. Not little kids. Teenagers. Loud, antsy teenagers. Uh-oh … Birthright. Now, don’t get me wrong. Birthright is a wonderful thing. It’s essence is that every American Jewish young adult is entitled to a free trip to the Holy Land before the age of 26. But Birthright or not, when I’m on a plan full of hyperactive, hormone-fueled high school- and college-aged kids recently back from two weeks of bonding with Bedouins and each other, I’m flying the unfriendly skies. The next 11 hours proceeded with people running down aisles, pushing chairs way too far back, drinking too much, shouting to each other — just about everything you don’t want to happen on an 11 hour flight. I will never complain about a crying baby as long as I live.

Eleven hours, five movies, two barely edible meals and multiple Diet Cokes later, I was in my real home — back in the arms of Sean and NYC.